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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353758">Paging Dr. Han</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcallmeIVY/pseuds/justcallmeIVY'>justcallmeIVY</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mystic Messenger (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Han Jumin Has Feelings, No Smut, Possessive Han Jumin, Reader Is Not Main Character (Mystic Messenger), Romantic Comedy, Swearing, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tsundere Reader, and jumin is way too into it, reader is a cocky little shit with emotional constipation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:26:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcallmeIVY/pseuds/justcallmeIVY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You're shanked in the park while trying to save a woman from being mugged and wake up in your soulmates penthouse, handcuffed to his weird bed that is shaped like a bloody circle for some reason.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Han Jumin/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Paging Dr. Han</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is the last damn time you’re ever playing the role of a vigilante.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Holy shit. You’re dying.</p><p>You’re dying, and the only thing you can think of at such a pivotal moment in your life is that nobody is going to turn off the slow cooker, and your building will burn down because you wanted pork belly for dinner.</p><p>You can see the headlines in tomorrow’s papers already. ‘Under-seasoned meal-for-one sets fire to downtown complex and causes chaos!’</p><p>Well, at least it sounds a lot better than whatever little title your death will draw up. Probably something like; ‘Massive dumbass with no athletic background takes it upon themselves to stop a mugging, only to be ditched by the victim and then robbed, and <em>stabbed</em>, by the said mugger.’</p><p>It’s wordy, but it’ll catch a few eyes, surely.</p><p>You know, the movies make it seem like a jab to the gut is bearable to a point. The protagonists in action films are able to limp away to safety, or sometimes, continue to fight back against their assailants and kick some serious bad guy ass. But you’re acutely aware, now more than ever, that Hollywood movies are full of shit. And being shanked with a blade leaves one with the same usefulness as somebody who just had their legs chopped off.</p><p>You're lying beside a slide in the middle of the park and curled up in a ball. Weeping. You try to ask for help, but you can't bring yourself to speak. It hurts to exert any amount of effort and the only people paying attention to you are doing the whole 'deer in the headlights' act, or sprinting away from the crazy guy brandishing a knife like anyone with two functioning brain cells would.</p><p>You can’t move, groan, or even breathe without white-hot pain searing at the wound. And it pulses with every heartbeat, and weaves itself through every nerve like a foul spiderweb that you can’t tear yourself out of. Your chest can barely take in any air at this point without feeling like it’s about to shatter. And stretching out to lie flat is surely equal to the amount of pain a woman goes through during childbirth... maybe.</p><p>You really wish that you took your Grandpa's sage advice and wrote a bloody will.</p><p>It’s not like you have much of anything to hand out, of course. And if the cursed pork belly has its way, then the Tamagotchi collection your brother has always begged for is going up in flames. It just would have been nice to tell somebody not to let your Mother go overboard with the funeral. And to make sure that she doesn’t waste money on buying you the finest headstone she can find and posting to it an unsavoury photograph that will be immortalized until a nuclear bomb hits Seoul.</p><p>“They’ve been attacked! Somebody call the police!"</p><p>Oh, you really hope that they're talking about you right now, because a little help would be <em>dandy.</em></p><p>Sobering to the words, every bystander kicks into gear at once. People are calling out for ambulances like they will fall out of the sky and stitch you up like a patchwork doll. A child is crying somewhere and begging for their parents. And a woman with an impressive set of lungs is wailing like a Banshee as if she felt the blow along with you.</p><p>The noise of it all makes dying feel even more morbid if that’s possible.</p><p>It’s not like you imagined a choir performing a Lana Del Rey song while you died, and tipping your fedora at the climax before skipping away, hand-in-hand, with a skeleton in a costume. You just didn’t want, nor expect, to be crumpled over on the ground and bleeding out in a park while surrounded by strangers on max panic mode. People who will forever be traumatised by your offensively green raincoat and terribly played out heroism.</p><p>There’s a shuffle of feet closing in. A concerned voice that dominates over the others. And then you feel the presence of somebody crouching down beside you and pressing a warm finger to your neck. You want to see this new face. To meet their eyes and find what expression they're wearing so you know how bad it looks. But your sight has other ideas because it has suddenly turned so poorly that your own Father could be an inch away from your face and you wouldn't be able to spot the giant mole on his nose.</p><p>"Damn, you're pretty messed up," he says.</p><p>Well, there's your answer. You look like flaming garbage and at the comment you can't help but snort even though it stings like a bitch.</p><p>“Woah. Did they laugh? Can you hear me? Blink once if you can.”</p><p>You snap those things three times for luck.</p><p>“They’re aware! That’s good.”</p><p>Somebody clicks their fingers. "Luciel. We need the authorities. There is no time for idle chitchat." Another man snarks.</p><p>There’s more scuffling. Muffled exchanges. Your side feels cold and empty. Where did he go? He was the only one who came!</p><p>
  <em>Come back! Please come back!</em>
</p><p>“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Okay? I’m here.”</p><p>Wait, did you say that out loud? Or are you floundering on the ground and giving him all the signs of a stage-five clinger? Well, screw it. You're <em>dying</em> and can cling all you want. And is it too forward to ask him to cradle you in these final moments? There’s no chance to gurgle the offer before he continues.</p><p>“Look, my friend here is going to stay with you while I get the paramedics, alright?” His voice targets itself elsewhere. “I'll be back. Wait here with them."</p><p>”Be quick.”</p><p>The saviour snorts. “Sure. I mean I wasn’t really planning on taking a leisurely stroll anyway, the weather’s not that great.”</p><p>”And I’m sure that they’ll appreciate such generous consideration. Now, go.”</p><p>There are fast steps that grow fainter and you know he has left. You hope that he comes back soon. You hope for a lot of things, really. Like surviving and seeing your family again, leaving your dead-end job, and pursuing a real career. Maybe taking that old friend of yours up on that coffee date they keep offering.</p><p>You hadn’t realised how blinding the sun was until a shadow blocks its rays, and the warmth of it on your forehead is replaced with the back of a chilly hand. There's a hum. Low and throaty. If you weren't so rudely distracted by the whole dying thing, your touch-starved self may have caught goo-goo eyes for whatever magnificent being could create such a purr.</p><p>A weight shifts, and your chest feels a little heavier, warmer too. The smell of despair and wet earth is replaced by peppermint and cinnamon. Reminding you of Christmas and filling your heart with the thoughts of your family. It's painful to ponder on. It hurts worse than the wound and you can't bear wandering down that track any longer.</p><p>To pull away from it all, you try to make sense of the imposing figure looming above you. You don’t have the patience to study the details of his suit, or the shape of his chin and the black silk that is his hair. You instead fall victim to a steely pair of eyes that are the same colour as the knife that was sunk into your abdomen and feel yourself tremble.</p><p>For an awful few seconds, you think that he's there to collect your soul.</p><p>But it fades quickly when you see that he is just a man. And a ridiculously handsome one at that... Jesus Christ. What GQ magazine cover did this guy jump out of? And whose heavenly genetics could give somebody such prominent cheekbones and ethereal looks? Of the many people wandering around Korea, he wasn't a bad face to see before doing one last macarena to the afterlife.</p><p>You flash a look to his hand. No ring. Nice.</p><p>Wait. What the hell are you doing?</p><p>
  <em>This is so not the time!</em>
</p><p>Shamed, frustrated, and literally about to pass away, you slap your inner self for being so absurd and become mindful of the present instead.</p><p>He raises a brow, thin and manicured. Likely curious about what a leering soon-to-be corpse could possibly be thinking of, and so you answer with a half truth even though it aches.</p><p>“I thought you were the Grim Reaper for a second.”</p><p>You try not to burst out laughing at how pale he’s turned at the ill-timed humour. Or how he stares back with eyes as wide as saucers. Like you’ve grown a second head, or told him that you can speak fluent Goldfish. But as if your body wants to spite you for making such a stupid decision today, a bubble of laughter sneaks up like a sucker-punch and it burns your chest like a hot poker. Causing you to wither into yourself like the man stood up and booted you in the side for being so blasé about dying.</p><p>You should say something better than that, idiot.</p><p>But unfortunately, you don’t have the chance to. You can't ask him if he can tell your family that you love them before the nausea kicks in. You wish too late for penance from your lactose-intolerant brother whom you bought a ticket to a tour of a cheese factory for his birthday, when he got you one to Disneyland. Or that you're the one who shaved a heart on the dog's fur when you were drunk, and instead blamed it on your cousin Madison who was then removed from the family trip to Bali.</p><p>Your body exhausts itself and chokes on the last of its fumes. And you wish there was a cold beer in your hand to hold up in the air and thank the few dozen people who made your life good—hell, even a warm beer would do. But your consciousness doesn’t care for fantasies. It slips through your willpower like sand and the people and scenery around you boil down to splotches of colour, like blobs of pastel paints brushed out on a disk.</p><p>You’re vaguely aware of being shifted.</p><p>You can hear sirens, shuffling boots on the pavement, and distant voices speaking in rushed words. They put something on your face and there's a loud bang that jolts you a little and forces you to suck in a breath that isn't painful while a person tells you that it’s all going to be okay. The relief is enough to make you tear up again.</p><p>
  <em>You're alive.</em>
</p><p>Somebody taps you on the arm softly with two fingers. "Alright. Now, you just breathe in and out slowly. The gas will help keep you relaxed while I administer the sedative, okay? Good, you're doing well. Keep going."</p><p>
  <em> In. Out. In. Out. </em>
</p><p>Gentle fingers are running through your hair and a man is humming a familiar tune close to your ear. The scent of peppermint and cinnamon somehow breaks though the mask you’re wearing, and you melt at the overload of your senses like a high idiot who should instead be throwing a fist at whatever bastard thought they had the right to touch you without consent.</p><p>But that’s a problem for tomorrow.</p>
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